cyrusk
46 posts
Latest Posts by cyrusk
She believes she knows my ache,
she thinks she understands my sorrow,
because once, she too was broken.
My pain is
a slow implosion,
a daily funeral
with no mourners,
a storm I must swallow
so she may walk beneath clear skies.
She remains with another,
while I cradle her chaos in the dark,
I try hold her world steady,
bleeding in silence,
so she never sees the stain.
Quietly tearing at the seams
just to keep her whole.
I laugh when I want to scream.
I smile so she can cry.
I disappear so she can shine.
And each day,
I wake inside a coffin
just to hold her hand.
This doesn't feel like love.
This is a man burning
so she may feel warm,
and never knowing
that the smoke
is me.
-Cyrus K.
Fin
No more love No more poems No more hearts No more souls
No more sticks No more stones No more splints No more bones
No more bricks No more walls No more mines No more yours
No more tears No more loss No more fears No more gods
No more graves No more rows No more wars No more jokes
No more needs No more wants No more sex No more cunts
No more slack No more ropes No more deaths No more ghosts
No more breaths No more goals No more dreams No more hope
No more sleep No more thoughts No more thoughts No more thoughts
Embrace the dark Till the new day's begun There's always the dawn Always the sun
--- 30-4-2025, M.A. Tempels © Napowrimo 30: Always the sun
There was another girl in her life,
her name was Crystal.
She came to her like a theif in the night,
promising solace in her cold brittle arms.
Crystal made her feel like flying,
not with wings,
but with fire in her veins.
She came to her like the cold in summer,
the warm in winter,
soft-lipped and knowing,
promising a love that never left,
a touch that never judged.
She held her close in the quiet,
when the world was too loud,
too cruel.
Crystal listened,
without questions,
just the hush of ecstasy
and a breath that smelled like escape.
With her, the nights were stars
bursting behind eyelids.
She wrapped her in silk smoke,
spun kisses of frost and flame,
and whispered:
"You’ll never need anyone but me."
Crystal was there when no one else was.
A lover,
a mother,
a savior in shimmer and sting.
She filled the cracks with lightning,
made broken feel beautiful,
made ruin taste sweet.
Crystal made her feel.
Emotions heightened.
But Crystal was a fucking lie.
She wasn’t warmth,
she was frost that burned,
a match pressed to the lips
that begged for solace.
She didn’t love her,
she used her,
like fire uses wood
until all that’s left
is ash and echo.
Crystal drained her slowly,
first the sleep,
then the hunger,
then the will.
She kissed her pulse,
then stole it.
She was the rush
before the ruin,
the high
before the hollow.
Her laughter grew quiet,
her joy grew thin,
her skin,
a parchment of stories
she no longer remembered writing.
Crystal never held her hand,
she held her hostage.
Every embrace
was a chain.
Every promise
was a blade.
She loved her
like a flame loves a moth,
dancing close,
until there was nothing left
but a flicker and a fall.
I'll never forget her,
and all her conniving ways.
Her name was Crystal...
Crystal meth...
-Cyrus K.
"I swear there is no greater burden than to wait without hope."
— Beau Taplin from The Waiting
I miss you every day. But today, it feels like everything I do is just here to remind me I am living without you.
“I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars.”
— Og Mandino
You don't have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.
Ray Bradbury
I want to lose myself in your love
make you my home again.
But your happiness doesn't belong to me
it is she that makes you bleed
and I watch without being seen.
I was birthed from the torn stomach of night,
drenched not in milk,
but in the black bile of forgotten prayers.
The world spat me out
as a creature too ruined to be loved,
a wound with legs,
a scream with teeth.
Hope;
was a bone thrown to a starving dog.
I gnawed it until my mouth filled with splinters,
bled until my tongue knew only the taste
of broken promises.
I grew eating hunger,
drinking the venom of people's hate,
wearing the bruises of their disgust
like a second, rotting skin.
The colour of my flesh...
an open invitation to cruelty,
a crime I could never peel from my bones.
And when I crawled through the sewage of my years,
a thing barely breathing,
I thought love would be the knife to cut me free.
Instead,
it was another dagger...
this one twisted slowly into my throat
while I watched her eyes,
soft and shining,
for someone else.
Tell me, God,
what is more merciful:
to be born blind to love,
or to be shown its light
only to have it ripped from your hands
by fingers colder than the grave?
If there is a God of agony,
He carved His name into my ribs with rusted nails,
He strung my tendons into a lyre
so He could pluck songs of suffering
from my every step.
At night, I lie rotting,
a feast for the worms of memory,
as my dreams decompose around me,
the stench of what might have been,
thick enough to choke a corpse.
I feel decay threading through my blood,
I hear my hope
crackling like dry leaves under the boots
of things that never loved me.
My soul,
no, not even a soul,
a shattered lantern,
spilling its last flicker into a pit
where even maggots refuse to crawl.
And still,
some putrid, twitching part of me
reaches out,
fingers broken and blackened,
begging the silent stars
for something,
anything,
that does not end
in rot.
-Cyrus K.
Beautiful creature 👽
You definitely are 🖤🖤🖤
I am not trapped.
I am abandoned.
There is no fight left in my limbs
no fire left in my chest
Only the heavy, sinking knowledge
that I have lived too long
in a body that was never mine to keep.
I do not recognize this face
these hands,
this voice that cracks like old pavement
every time I try to speak
I used to scream for help.
Now I don’t even bother whispering
No one listens to a woman
who dug her own grave.
I do not believe there is a more dangerous and destructive force in all the world than hope, but I do not believe there is a more necessary or perfectly beautiful one either.
Tyler Knott Gregson
“Until we have seen someone’s darkness, we don’t really know who they are. Until we have forgiven someone’s darkness, we don’t really know what love is.”
— Marianne Williamson
She was never mine.
Not even in dreams,
where shadows lie softer than truth.
But I love her
like a noose loves the neck...
tight, desperate,
aching to belong.
She moved through me
like winter in old bones,
slow, cruel,
reminding me I’m still alive
only to feel the cold.
I gave her a love
like a blade gives mercy;
sharp,
faithful,
and never asked for.
She was the war I bled for
before the first shot was fired.
And I...
I was the wound
that stayed open
long after she was gone.
-Cyrus K.
I was the moth.
Not blind,
but aching.
I was not deceived by the flame,
I longed for its ruin.
To be undone in that heat,
to burn knowing,
was a worship beyond reason.
A thousand lifetimes in darkness
could never equal
one death
in such light.
-Cyrus K.
so soft it hurts
We scroll past
starving children
to buy shoes we don’t need
and call it life.
Babies are born
with lungs full of poison,
their bodies warped
by toxins we dumped for profit.
Mothers wrap sons
in flags
like it softens
the sound of a coffin closing.
We skin the earth
for gold and oil
and hang it on our necks
while forests burn
and oceans bleed.
We worship Gods
but not Their creation.
Pray louder
than we love.
Animals scream in silence.
Children rot in camps.
Water is sold.
Air is dying.
Truth is filtered.
Kindness forgotten.
We kill over dirt
though we are made of stars.
We hoard
while others die thirsty.
This is not a world,
it is a graveyard
we are still digging
with our eyes wide open.
-Cyrus K.
She does not know
how I love her with the kind of ache
that gnaws through bone
and drinks from the marrow.
Even when her smile blooms
for another's dawn,
I gather my own ruin
just to make her laugh,
as if her laughter
could stitch the torn seams
of my unraveling soul.
I do not touch her skin
to feel warmth...
I touch her silence,
her chaos,
her dreams curled like fists in sleep.
When I kiss her,
my lips meet her heart,
I am drinking from the chalice
of every life she’s lived before me.
I am not licking her body,
I am tasting her soul.
I am not undressing flesh,
I am peeling open the pages
of her heart’s forbidden scriptures,
reading with reverence
the verses no man has dared recite.
Our love,
if it can be called that,
is no polished jewel.
It is a rose
born in rot,
drowned in rain,
fed by sorrow,
suffocated in shit,
burnt by longing.
Still, it grows,
bloody petals,
razor-edged thorns,
aching upward for a sun
that forgets it daily.
She wounds me without malice,
yet I kneel in thanks.
Each time she leaves,
she takes the breath
but leaves the lungs,
so I may remember
what drowning in her felt like.
Even now,
knowing I will never be
the reason her eyes glow,
I carve poetry from pain
to gift her joy,
like a madman
plucking out his own ribs
to build her a cradle of light.
Let the last tree fall,
let the stars bleed out
in the throat of the sky.
Let the oceans forget their names,
and even after they become dust,
I will still love her;
not because she is mine,
but because loving her
taught me how to survive
a fire that asks for nothing
but to burn
and burn
and burn.
She is not mine.
She is no one's.
But I am hers...
even after the last songbird
chokes on dust.
-Cyrus K
The woven silk of
Silence, petals fluttering
A delicate day
And the world is wavering
Between soft kiss and collapse
She rests in the arms
of a man who cannot feel her storm,
while I drown
in the flood she left behind.
I feel like a spider,
strung with longing,
spin webs from torn ribs
to catch the ghost of her smile.
Her laugh...
a blade I swallow each morning,
thanking it
for the pain.
I would tear the stars
from the throat of the heavens
just to watch her eyes
glimmer one more time.
My love is not gentle,
it is blood and bone and burning rope.
It is sleepless nights
stitched with screams
no one hears.
This is love,
where I am the pyre
and she,
the flame
that never stays
but never dies.
-Cyrus K.
“I wish I could say everything in one word. I hate all the things that can happen between the beginning of a sentence and the end.”
— Unknown
its so hard to believe someone could love me. im always always too much or too little. never enough.
2 April, 1937 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov
Sweetness 4 You
the fates can't let us collide
you see
I'm cursed
my days filled with anxiety
but your voice
god, your voice
it lingers in the marrow of my mind
like a prayer never answered
like worship turned wound
an altar trembling in your shadow
i know it's hard for you now
so collaps into me
drown me sweetly
steep into my very being
my body and soul is all yours
not even the holy dare to enter
untouched even by the divine
do you think
"would their eyes forget me
if i buried myself beneath the waves?"
I know
you do
you wear it like skin
but my love, your fate is a prophecy
they would go blind
before they ever looked away
they would die for you
bleed for you
the heavens would fight
for an eternity
to claim your darkness
and to breathe YOUR NAME once
though the gods themselves choke on it
The flowers inside of me are withering,
Blues, pinks, and purples—
All fading away.
Where did the time go?
I’ve watered the garden within me,
Ive been vigilant.
So why?
Tell me why the colors are vanishing,
Tell me why I am fading away,
And listen before I go.
Tell me of the times I was vibrant inside,
Remind me of my favorite songs,
And all I used to be infatuated with.
Plant a new garden inside of me,
This time, you can have the seeds
And the watering can.
For I do not trust myself with them anymore.
I wish for bluebells
And lilac petals this last time around,
Then I will finally be able to rest.
I loved a girl
like the earth loves the rain,
knowing she’d never stay,
but needing her just the same.
She cried once in my arms
and I caught her tears
as if they were stars
fallen just for me...
but she wept for him.
I bandaged wounds
carved by another man’s hands,
whispering lullabies
to a heart that beat for someone else.
Every time she broke,
I shattered more quietly.
She kissed me...
like a door half-open,
warmth lingering on the threshold,
but her soul still pacing
somewhere far inside a house
I was never invited to live in.
And still,
I gave her my all,
a love without borders,
a fire without fuel,
a sea willing to drown
just to hold her reflection
for one more second.
Is this not the cruel poetry of love?
To give,
not for return,
but because you were born
with hands that only know how to hold,
even when holding means breaking.
They say unrequited love
is the purest kind.
Perhaps because it never has the chance
to rot with reality.
It stays eternal;
not because it lives,
but because it dies
beautifully.
To love like this
is to bleed in silence
and call it devotion.
To smile through heartbreak
because her happiness,
even in someone else's arms...
still feels holier
than my own.
- Cyrus K.
